


Anomalies, Colliding

by Chaos_Kisses



Category: ATEEZ (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Afterlife, Alternate Universe - Library, Flower Symbolism, M/M, Mystery, Parallel Universes (kinda), Seonghwa is lonely, hinted romance - Freeform, the author can't tag, what is this mess?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2019-11-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:40:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21524614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chaos_Kisses/pseuds/Chaos_Kisses
Summary: “But,” Hongjoong tried to put his thoughts into words, “Eden exists within time as a concept, though separately from it.”“I presume that might be closest to it.” Seonghwa agreed. “Personally, I would even argue that Eden is a separate metaphysical level altogether.”The smaller mulled over his words for a few minutes, eyes lost on the distance. As he waited for the other to speak, Seonghwa entertained himself with observing Hongjoong. The man was small, petite like a fairy. His features seemed equally delicate, but with a mischievous side to it - and sharper than one would expect. If anything, he could be described as intense. Charismatic. Fascinating. Seonghwa’s thoughts wandered back to the flowers - if anything, Hongjoong might just turn out to be his clematis.
Relationships: Kim Hongjoong/Park Seonghwa
Comments: 8
Kudos: 32





	Anomalies, Colliding

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at an Ateez AU, so don't expect too much! I hope it's not too confusing.  
> Enjoy!

The library was called Eden. 

And recently, Hongjoong had become a constant in the giant building. Seonghwa would never know where exactly he’d see him next. He had a habit of sitting on window sills, for most of it, light spilling in through the glass and colouring his face in the hues of the sun while his face would be concentrated, eyes fixed on whatever book he was reading. 

At first, his presence had been slightly disconcerting to Seonghwa, as was every person entering the library at first. The librarian wasn’t used to constantly having someone around, to turning a corner and seeing the same face again and again - but like always he got used to it. 

He remembered back then when San had been here. The boy, barely a man at the time, had been curious, always exploring. There seemed to be no corner of the library he didn’t know about in the shortest amount of time, his happy giggly laughter sounding through the rooms and hallways whenever he discovered something new. 

And Eden had a lot to discover. It’s halls seemed to stretch endlessly, a chaotic layout of seemingly random rooms connected to each other. Several floors held more books than one could ever read in his life, with more stories than one person could even dream of experiencing. Shelf after shelf held books, tomes and scrolls of all sizes. 

Some seemed so old and fragile that Wooyoung and Mingi had been forbidden from touching them. Their overly enthusiastic manner and clumsy hands would have had the old scriptures crumble to dust. Mingi had been gone just as Seonghwa finished restoring them, carefully copying their contents into a new book to preserve the story. Mingi would have loved it; it was the life of an egyptian traveler, describing his journeys. Memories had turned more adventurous than they had probably been, but the man had been a good story teller. Even while copying, Seonghwa had been enraptured by this particular story. 

Hongjoong had certainly shared his sentiment. For a long evening they had discussed the book in candle light, huddled away in a corner of the library, blankets around their shoulders and cups of tea clutched in their hands. Seonghwa knew the other man was interested in history, and he had rarely discussed a topic like ancient egypt in that depth as they had that particular evening. 

They had attempted at connecting the dots of the man’s story and actually recounts of history to figure out how far either might be from the truth - to see behind the curtain of glorified adventures and catch a glimpse of the person travelling. It had almost been as if they had become the traveller himself, standing on a cliff over the ocean, sailing down river nile, crossing the desert on camelback and trading in cities and villages unknown to them. 

When they returned back to their reality, Seonghwa could almost feel the heat of the air, the rough scratch of a sandy wind against his face, could hear the creaking of leather saddles and the grunts of camels laden with goods. He could smell the markets, the dirt of the streets, the soft aroma of a blooming cactus. His eyes had fallen on the Queen of the Night, standing on the window sill. It’s large pale pink blossoms had finally opened from their fuzzy grey buds, and spread out. 

The flower didn’t seem to fit the cactus with the long pricks, it’s mixture of majestic and royal delicacy and elegance at odds with the sharp stinging pain the cactus would bring if one touched it. Their sweet aroma was wafting the room, as if the story had awakened the bloom of a Queen that had seen those places they had so eagerly discussed. 

Hongjoong had stretched out his hand to touch the petals - softly, almost reverently - before his hand moved to ghost over the sharps thorns coating the rest of the plants. He placed the tip of his finger against one of them. Seonghwa watched as the soft skin indented, deeper and deeper, until it broke. Hongjoong did not flinch. Just as slowly he pulled back his finger as red bloomed on the tip. It was only a miniscule puncture, neither deep nor painful. But the red stood out starkly against the contrast of his pale skin. A fat red drop gathered at the tip before it slid down his finger like a morbid raindrop. It was only a drop, and when no more blood followed, the travel of the drop came to a halt on Hongjoong’s palm. 

He turned his hand to look at it like one might look at a specimen: with a detached interested and void of emotion or even recognition that this very blood had sprung from his own veins. Back then, Seonghwa had known that it had started. Slowly, as always, and in almost fleeting moments. Unnoticeable for the untrained eye, but Seonghwa knew what to look for, and that he had to expect it by now, considering how long Hongjoong had been around already. 

It reminded him of Yeosang, now that he thought about it. The resemblance had occurred to him as he was sorting books. Yeosang too, had kept more to himself, had been more reserved and quiet. His interest was not easily sparked and Seonghwa had taken a long time to understand the other’s habit of just sitting somewhere, observing. In the beginning, it had unnerved him, but after a while, he had just started to ignore it and left him to it. 

One time though he had stayed with Yeosang. He had found the young man in one of the larger halls. The room itself was impressive, with its high and wide windows that let in sunlight and illuminated the whole room. Wooden floor stretched over the main area as well as the high galleries than arched over a reading area, originating from a singular spiral staircase in the middle of the room. 

Seonghwa had almost missed the slim figure on the gallery. Yeosang had been sitting at the top of the stairs, legs stretched through the wide spaces in the wooden balustrade with his feet dangling freely in the air. His head was leaning against the wood with his hands clasped in his lap. He had seemed lost in thought as he stared at the room, but Seonghwa could see how his eyes were moving around. He had stepped next to the young man and leaned against the balustrade. 

“What are you doing here?” the librarian had asked. Yeosang hadn’t replied immediately, but instead looked up. His head moved slowly, sluggishly, as if reality was only now returning to him. He had been farther gone back then than Hongjoong was now. Much farther. But his eyes were very much alive as they caught his gaze under brown curly hair. 

“A flower,” he had replied. Seonghwa wasn’t too sure what he meant with that and his confusion must have shown on his face because the hint of a smirk had played around the corner of Yeosang’s mouth for just a second. 

“Look at the room,” he said. Seonghwa turned his head and did as he had been told. The room looked as it always looked. Large, round, with sunlight streaming through the windows. The wooden floor was just a shade darker than the bookshelves that lined the walls. The spiral staircase in the middle of the room lead to arching catwalks that connected the gallery around the upper half of the room, crossing the air elegantly and without a single pillar supporting its weight. The walls were painted in a light blue with some white ornaments. Nothing was out of the ordinary. There was no flower. 

He felt how Yeosang moved next to him, how his body shifted as he pulled his legs back up and moved to get back on his feet. Then, he leaned against the balustrade next to Seonghwa. An amused expression was playing around his features. 

“Look again,” he demanded softly. “And try to really see the room this time.”

Seonghwa couldn’t help the raised eyebrow but turned his eyes on the room again, obediently scanning everything again. He saw the same as last time: floor, windows, staircase, shelves, blue walls with white ornaments. But this time the ornament caught his eye. He had seen it so many times he didn’t even notice anymore, but the white ornament created a the form of an archway, encasing the shelves. Each shelf was under a white fresco that formed an archway from the floor and and tapered into a point over the shelf. It looked like the tip of a long leaf - or a petal. Seonghwa’s eyes scanned the wall: he could see the outline, could see the tips of the petal curved up against the walls. his eyes followed one of the white ornaments to where it met the floor.

It was as if he saw the wooden floor for the first time. He had noticed the patches of differently coloured wood before, lighter than others, but he had dismissed it as a natural phenomenon. Now, he saw that the lighter parts continued lines towards the centre of the room, continuing the shape of the petals that stood against the walls. The lines were not straight - they curved softly, creating a natural shape instead of strict lines. As his eyes followed them, he suddenly understood the arrangement in the centre of the room. 

Around the base of the stairs, an assortment of tables and low shelves was placed seemingly random. The shelves formed a star with open tips, with the tables in a circle on the inside of the star. From the centre rose the stairwell. Halfway up, wooden arches split from the staircase like branches from a tree. Lanterns were hung upon their tips and would illuminate the seats underneath when darkness fell. 

Seonghwa traced the arrangement again and tried to connect it to the rest of the room. Long small petals, with a second layer of shorter and broader petals towards the middle. And from its centre, the staircase rose like style and stigma with the lanterns spreading out like stamen. It reminded him of a particular flower but he couldn’t recall the name. 

“Clematis,” Yeosang said softly. “That’s what it is.” 

Seonghwa nodded. The other seemed to have read his thoughts, as clematis was what had been thinking about. A delicate climbing flower that wrapped thin tendrils around the structure it leaned on. Beautiful blooms of blue, pink, and white, with a centre of smaller petals. Only the staircase did not fit. 

“But there is Hibiscus, too.” he added and Yeosang hummed in acknowledgment. 

“What a fitting and ironic combination, isn’t it?” he asked. His voice was level, but a certain emotion swung in it. Seonghwa couldn’t quite place it - somewhere between sadness and bitterness. He waited for the other to elaborate. Yeosang stroked the wood of the balustrade, fingers soft and barely touching. His eyes were still flitting around the room. 

“Hibiscus as a flower symbolising perfection. Beauty. Delicacy. Quite a fitting imagery, considering Eden’s beauty. And Clematis.” He paused. His gaze seemed to draw inwards, as if he had suddenly found something interesting inside his own mind, something Seonghwa couldn’t see. 

“Clematis standing for Artifice. Cunning. Ingenuity.” He looked up again, eyes back on the room and fiery, but his voice held neither malice nor frustration. Only a deep resignation. 

“It wraps around what it gets hold over, and grows with it. And, blinded by its beauty, you only notice how it completely caught you when it is already too late. Such intelligence. Such skill. I have to applaud it.”

And Seonghwa had understood at that moment what Yeosang was. He wasn’t an adventurer and explorer like Wooyoung had been, or San - always trying to find new things. He wasn’t a creator like Mingi or Hongjoong, that lost themselves in their strive to understand and contribute to the stories. He certainly wasn’t like Jongho, who had fought until the very end and refused it all - Seonghwa was still collecting all parts of his story that had scattered throughout the library. If anything, he was closest to Yunho.

Yunho, who had come in, looked at the first books and asked Seonghwa: “How long will it take?” 

He had understood everything from the beginning, and Seonghwa couldn’t answer his question. Not because he did not want to. But because he did not know the answer. It was different for everyone. But Yunho had understood that through his careful observance and instinctual understanding. Yeosang, though, was an observer. 

Most didn’t accept their fate, but saw it only when it was too late to do anything. Some fought it. Some came in knowing it. And some figured it out and resigned. But they all faded. And Yeosang had figured it out. He had observed everything and understood what awaited him. Seonghwa had to applaud him. He had applauded him. 

And later, when Yeosang was gone and Seonghwa was walking through the hall again he noticed the intricate carvings for the first time. Carvings on the shelves, depicting climbing flowers, winding and stretching, defying the gravity that threatened to pull them back down again. He looked closer and recognised the bloom. Clematis.

“They are truly beautiful,” Hongjoong said behind him. The smaller man had followed him into the room, a book loosely clasped against his chest, and sunlight reflecting of his bright red hair. His eyes were wandering over the shelves, the ceiling and walls until they landed back on Seonghwa. 

“They fit this.” he remarked, casually. “They fit you, in a way.”

Seonghwa returned his gaze as he tried to figure out what the other meant. Hongjoong grinned, lopsidedly and full of mirth and affection. His expressive face had fascinated the librarian from the beginning. Each and every emotion was displayed on Hongjoong’s features, honest and true. And while Seonghwa appreciated the ease of reading those emotions, their spectrum had caused more confusion for him than understanding. 

Often, he had been met with affection, with adoration, mirth, amusement, passion and joy. Seriousness, anger, wrath - never directed at him, but present nonetheless. Sadness, reverance, awe, amazement. Seonghwa had seen it all on Hongjoong’s features, had seen the slant of his lips, the crinkle around his eyes, a frown on his forehead, the darkening of his eyes - so many expressions. But he could not figure out the expression Hongjoong was directing at him so often, just as he did now. 

A gaze so full of affection Seonghwa couldn’t return it for too long. But here was another underlying emotion hidden. Well, not quite hidden but not as obvious. A certain sadness he couldn’t place, just as he couldn’t figure out why Hongjoong directed these emotions at him. 

He had grown comfortable with the smaller man around. No other had ever stayed that long, and Seonghwa had caught himself enjoying his time spent with Hongjoong. He felt at ease with the other, like a warm blanket wrapped around him. No wariness, no distance. Hongjoong was neither shy nor did he hold back with his thoughts. Seonghwa had even grown used to slender arms wrapping around his waist and a small body pressing against his back as he stood in front of a shelf. 

“They fit you,” Hongjoong continued, “because you draw me in. Because it feels like your being has wrapped around me like the tendrils of the clematis. Lightly, gently, only holding and encasing, but not suffocating and oppressing. Like an embrace.” 

Seonghwa did not know what to say. He was not even sure he understood what Hongjoong was talking about. But the other just kept their eyes connected as he smiled softly, his hand stretching forward to run softly over the carvings on the shelf.

Later that evening, they found themselves in a different room, seated on a sofa, legs drawn up and a blanket spread over them. Hongjoong was leaning sideways against the backrest, an arm perched up on it as he faced Seonghwa in a similar position. 

“I was wondering,” he started, voice contemplative. “How old is Eden?”

Seonghwa shook his head. 

“Older than we could comprehend. Time is not a concept as linear as we might think. It’s more like a constantly curving line, going back on and around itself - not repeating, but revolving. It is hardly possible to pinpoint a when and where in time.”

Hongjoong nodded along, eyebrows drawn together. 

“So it’s more like a part of time itself?” he asked. Seonghwa considered his words for a moment before he hummed dismissively. 

“Not like that either,” he slowly said. “If it was a part of time itself, it would not exist within its own volition - or even in a corporeal form for that matter. Time, you must consider, is void of consciousness and ambition. Neither does it make decisions. It is just a concept, a metaphysical level of perception than can’t be properly described in our three dimensional terms.” 

“But,” Hongjoong tried to put his thoughts into words, “Eden exists within time as a concept, though separately from it.”

“I presume that might be closest to it.” Seonghwa agreed. “Personally, I would even argue that Eden is a separate metaphysical level altogether.” 

The smaller mulled over his words for a few minutes, eyes lost on the distance. As he waited for the other to speak, Seonghwa entertained himself with observing Hongjoong. The man was small, petite like a fairy. His features seemed equally delicate, but with a mischievous side to it - and sharper than one would expect. If anything, he could be described as intense. Charismatic. Fascinating. Seonghwa’s thoughts wandered back to the flowers - if anything, Hongjoong might just turn out to be his clematis. 

“I don’t know if I agree to that.” His words had Seonghwa refocus on their conversation at hand. he raised an eyebrow to show that he was listening and incite an elaboration on Hongjoong’s part. 

“You said Eden wasn’t like the concept of time because of consciousness. A metaphysical level wouldn’t fit here to, so even though we are speaking about an incredibly complex concept, it is still within most of our area of perception and at least partially of our understanding I’d say.”

Hongjoong’s eyes left Seonghwa’s as if he had suddenly grown insecure of his words. His fingers played with a loose thread of the blanket as he seemed to weigh his own words in his head and tried to come to a conclusion. Eventually he looked up. 

“I guess being a living being might make the concept of Eden easier to understand, because we share the features of consciousness, will and -” he gestured vaguely - “being alive.” 

Seonghwa knew his incredulity must have shown on his face when Hongjoong’s eyes grew insecure again. THe librarian smiled softly. 

“What is it?” the other asked, but the taller just shook his head. 

“It’s just,” he began, “I always forget that you don’t know you’re dead yet.” 

A small, lopsided smile bloomed on Hongjoong’s lips as his gaze locked with Seonghwa’s. 

“Ah,” he replied. “So it really is like this. I wasn’t sure if I understood correctly.”

Silence fell on them. Not heavy or uncomfortable, just contemplative. Knew he had to give Hongjoong time to put his thoughts into order. He always needed that time, and there was nothing rushing them. One question remained in his head. 

“How did you understand it?” he asked and Hongjoong chuckled. 

“A mixture of educated guessing and some incidental research.” he murmured, apparently still half in his head. 

“I was wondering why you wrote my name down when I first entered.” he continued. Seonghwa nodded along. Whenever someone came through the library doors, Seonghwa would know and meet them at the entrance. He would ask their name and write it into the large tome on his desk. Eden liked a proper system. 

“I wondered if it was connected to the inscription above the entrance.” Hongjoong continued. “It seemed to fit - a name for a story. And then I stumbled upon a book about a young man named Yunho, who had thought exactly the same.”

Seonghwa’s eyes widened. To come Yunho’s book by chance and to coincide with his observations was a feat. And to connect these feature as easily. Hongjoong was good. 

“I appreciate the inscription, I have to say.” the smaller said, amusement in his voice. “Humans tend to think of inscriptions as symbolic, or as metaphors, but Eden actually says what is to come. No lies, no secrets.” 

He looked up at Seonghwa, hair falling into his eyes, gaze boring into the taller man’s. 

“‘Your story will stay. And it will be safe.’ True words. Nothing will ever leave, and if you enter, you won’t either.” Hongjoong stated. “Your physical existence ceases, but your story, your consciousness, stays preserved in its truest form, kept safe in an impenetrable fortress.”

There was no malice, no judgement or anger, not even sadness in his voice. Just acceptance. Understanding. As Seonghwa got lost in Hongjoong again, he felt gentle fingers stroking the back of his hand, wrapping around and interlacing their fingers. The smaller scooted a bit closer and lifted their intertwined hands. 

“Are you dead too, then? Are you becoming a story, just as I am?” he asked. Seonghwa took a minute to answer, while Hongjoong’s thumb stroked softly over the back of his hand. 

“I have to assume my physical existence has ended as well.” he eventually started. “It ended long ago. Too many years to count, too many for me to even care about. But I can’t answer if I’m becoming a story.” 

Hongjoong’s finger stilled, eyes fixed onto his lap. “You can’t or you won’t?” he asked. Seonghwa lifted his free hand and touched a gentle finger against the smaller man’s chin to lift it up. Anxious eyes met his and a smile bloomed on his lips as he placed their joined hands in his own lap. 

“I can’t.” he replied. “I am the librarian. That very concept goes against Eden’s whole ‘system’.”

He sighed as he considered how to explain. 

“I guess you could say I am an anomaly.” he attempted. “An anomaly in the sense that I don’t have a story. It’s not that my story is not interesting, but just doesn’t exist. My whole existence is abnormal. I had a physical form, I knew that. I could touch, speak, hear, walk. I was bound to the same physical conditions as every other person. However, I was unable to interact. It was as if I existed in another dimension, separated by nothing but a thin cloth, but still unable to interact. I can’t even be sure how I got be a physical being.”

Hongjoong seemed baffled, his eyes wide open and mouth slighty agape. 

“You see,” Seonghwa continued, “for Eden, stories are not just existences. He would fall to his own creation then, a paradox in itself. So a story for him comes from interactions. From experiences through the world, and not just in it. And I never had those. I just existed.” 

Encountering Eden, for him, had been a blessing. For the first time his anomaly was to his own benefit. But what would happen if two anomalies met? In scientific terms, an anomaly was something outside a certain concept, and only a specific anomaly for that situation. In another situation, that same anomaly might be the norm. It was a question of focus and perspective. Seonghwa was not a standard, neither was Eden. Their existence was outside of how an existence functioned on every other level. Their existence wasn’t just another perspective that could be viewed, for it couldn’t be viewed without completely ending any previous existence. And even then, their specific state could never be entered. They were the definition of an anomaly. 

Those two anomalies crashing had brought them benefits. For Eden, a librarian. For Seonghwa, interaction on a physical level. Every person he met was to become a story, but he could for once interact. Not deeply, but at least something. And there laid the risk. Hongjoong seemed to have figured it out too. 

“But by interacting, you create your story.” he gasped. “You are becoming a story.” 

Seonghwa smiled and tilted his head. 

“You are not wrong,” he acknowledged. “But you are neither right. It's like an involuntary loophole. I do not interact with the world after all. I interact with - pardon the expression - afterimages on a different metaphysical level.”

Hongjoong’s eyes widened as realization struck him. 

“I might be the only being in existence,” he continued, “that is able to choose if it wants to become a story.”

Silence engulfed them again. Hongjoong seemed shocked, still processing what he had just been presented with. His free hand twitched were it rested in his lap. His mouth opened and closed as if he wanted to speak, but did not know what to say. Eventually, he lifted his head. 

“You are staying alone. Because no one can stay. Not in the same plane of existence as you. And as such, you can’t even be sure if you become a story like everyone else, or if it will be something completely different.” 

The grip on Seonghwa’s hand tightened before Hongjoong pulled his hand from his. But just as quickly as the warmth of his skin was gone, it returned, this time cupping his face. Hongjoong was kneeling in front of him on the sofa, their noses so close they almost touched. Seonghwa could count the lashed that framed those expressive eyes and his hands tightened around the smallers waist where he had put them reflexively. 

“You are afraid of being alone again,” Hongjoong whispered, voice choked. “You are afraid of entering another separate level from everyone else, and no finding an intermediate like Eden this time. You are afraid of going on, because it could lead you back to where you started.” 

Emotion filled his voice as he spoke, and tears welled up in his eyes. Their gaze broke as Hongjoong leaned his forehead against Seonghwa’s, thumbs stroking his cheek bones. Seonghwa breathed him in, tried capture every single feeling, from the warmth on his skin, Hongjoong’s scent, to how his heart fluttered and his arms wrapped fully around the smaller man. 

He tried to hold the feeling as long as possible as he closed the book. But as he opened his eyes, sunlight shone him, and the ghost of Hongjoong’s touch faded away like a dream. His hands caressed the small linen bound book in his hands, the familiar name printed in neat black letters onto the dark red linen. _Kim Hongjoong_. 

A sad smile played on his lips. It wasn’t the first time he had revisited this chapter. His anomaly enabled him to interact with afterimages. And what was a story, if not an afterimage?

_You truly cannot let them go, can you?_ Eden asked. Seonghwa chuckled. How could he? He wasn’t like Eden, collecting people and their stories. Their stories mattered, but for him interaction with them was everything. And only few had made him question if his existence was worth continuing. 

Wasn’t it a funny paradox? How in life, continuing to live could be motivated through others, but here, they might motivate him to take the next step. To step into the unknown. 

But Seonghwa had long since determined that he was not only scared of what was to come. He was also selfish. He did not want to risk the possibility of entering another existence without interaction. Another existence without meeting Hongjoong. And so he replayed the memories of him, went through his story again and again, even though it never changed. Even though decades had passed since then. Even though Hongjoong was dead, and would not come back.

Maybe someday Seonghwa would go. Someday, he would become a story. But until then existed with only the memories of the one person he might have loved. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Did everything become clear? Or not? I hope you liked it!
> 
> The Queen of the Night is a kind of Cactus called Selenicereus grandiflorus - or Night-Blooming Cereus. These cacti open their blooms at night and special cases like the Queen of the Night bloom only once a year. Especially if they bloom in a smaller room, their beautiful is scent ist really strong and the epitome of what I personally would call a flower scent: Something sweet and fresh, and noticeable but not overwhelming. I've put some pictures on Twitter if you want to have a look.
> 
> Feel free to talk to me in the comments or on twitter (@chaos_kisses).


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